Nail Me
by Atlin Merrick
Summary: A story wherein we borrow one infinitely charming characteristic of Benedict Cumberbatch, and give it to Sherlock, while at the same time  eventually  finding a reason to get on with some sexing  by way of two manicures and maybe a pedicure. Total fluff.
1. Chapter 1

_A story wherein we borrow one infinitely charming characteristic of Benedict Cumberbatch, and give it to Sherlock, while at the same time (eventually) finding a reason to get on with some sexing._

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**Nail Me**

He was very, very high. And it felt very, very good.

He was going nowhere and doing nothing for the next—he looked at his watch—three hours, so he methodically cataloged the somewhat unique, largely familiar sensations: Dizziness. A sort of buzzing around the lips. A gentle, rolling euphoria. Distractibility. A hyper-awareness of his breathing. Horniness. Auditory hallucinations. Laziness. Light-headedness. Yes, he was really quiet remarkably—

"Hi!"

Stretched out like a crash victim on the loo's floor, Sherlock Holmes blinked a lazy gaze to the closed door behind his head. Dr. John H. Watson was on the other side of that nice door, and Dr. John H. Watson probably would not approve of what was going on behind it, so the consulting detective within said quite loudly, "Shhhhhh! Don't say anything and he won't know you're here!"

Yes, Sherlock was pretty damned high.

The sound of a hand brushing against his door: "What'd you say?"

Without being aware he was doing it, Sherlock shoved at his cock with the heel of his hand and sort of giggled.

The sound was muffled enough that John just nodded to himself and shouted, "Yeah, well I'm going back out, just had to drop off some milk and cheese—by the way, you are having a sandwich and soup tonight and I don't care if I have to puree it and feed it to you by hand. Protein, Sherlock, _protein."_

Sherlock shoved at his cock again and said "La de da!"

Fortunately John didn't hear him. In moments he was gone again.

_Fortunately?_ Wait, what? Sherlock looked down at his own hand manhandling him on top of his trousers, then he tilted his head back and looked at the closed door again and wondered whether he'd actually heard John or was he just—

"Hi!" Sherlock shouted. He did that thing that sounded a lot like a giggle again, closed his eyes, fell asleep in seconds, and slept for the next two hours.

And curled on his side like a child in that small warm room Sherlock probably would have slept another two if the loo door hadn't eventually opened, slowly and carefully, followed by a softly whispered, "Uh, hey sorry, are you—"

What he'd expected to find in there John didn't know, but his lover curled up in a drowsy ball on the ratty shower mat—something like a hundred bottles of open nail polish scattered over every flat porcelain surface—was not even in the top one hundred.

"Jesus Christ," John clamped a hand over his nose and mouth. The fumes were completely overwhelming in the small room. That's when John's eyes popped wide in realization and he dropped down behind his lover's head.

"Wake up!" John patted Sherlock's cheek with one hand, leaned backward and grabbed the door behind him, swung it wide, with the other. "Wake up love, hey, hey, wake up—"

Sherlock's eyes opened, wide and startled, then he looked up at the man crouching over him and said, "Oh, hi. What are you doing here?" He blinked and stared and then said, bright and cheery, "You needed bread and milk didn't you?" Sherlock squinted one eye tight, thinking. "No, you got bread and milk." He squinted the other eye closed. "No, cheese. It was cheese. Wasn't it cheese?"

John tugged at Sherlock's arm. "God, you're stoned. Come on, get up, we have to get you away from these fumes and into fresh air."

Sherlock lay there calmly, thrumming his fingers on his breast bone for a moment. "Fumes? Mmm, I think that was the point." He pointed to nothing in particular. "Ah, yes, that was it! I was doing an experi—"

John barked "Later!" and shoved his hands under Sherlock's arms. He tried to pull, but the other man was just too big. "Come on, help me Sherlock, you need to get up and get out of here. _I_ need to get out of here, I feel dizzy already."

The detective thought about all of this for a moment, then realized that thinking felt hard. _That _spurred motion. Sherlock quickly rolled over onto wobbly hands and knees, and instantly found his head spinning and his vision whiting out. "Fefflester," he said, with no idea what it meant. Then there it was again, that persistent tugging and he shrugged and was just about to follow it, when he remembered something that seemed fairly important. Gesturing off to his left he said, "Did you know we have thpiders under the think?"

John froze in the act of half-dragging his sweetheart across the floor, completely shocked at the sound of his lover's schoolboy lisp. When the other man swayed dangerously on one knee John shook his head, refocused, grabbed Sherlock's arms, and tugged. "Up! Easy now."

It took them nearly a minute to get Sherlock's feet soundly beneath him, and long seconds more before he could put one foot in front of the other reliably enough to actually locomote forward.

John draped Sherlock's arm over his shoulders, grabbed his waist tightly. "Easy does it, take it slow." There was no other way Sherlock could take it. He dragged the toe of each foot as he took small steps, watching his legs as if they belonged to someone he was only vaguely acquainted with.

Eventually they made it to through the door and one, two, just three steps further on and Sherlock actually felt his brain—well, could a brain _sigh_ in relief?

Apparently so.

As they crept toward the living room and the couch, John's arm like iron around Sherlock's waist, the smaller man quite nearly carrying the taller one now that he had leverage, John had to ask half in exasperation, half in absolute wonder. "What were you doing? Seriously, what could you have possibly been doing in there?"

The answer was going to be mildly convoluted. It was going to involve two manicures and possibly a pedicure. Quite likely some sex. And eventually as many things that started with S as John could possibly think of on short notice.

_

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That infinitely charming lisp? Search YouTube or Google for "The Last Enemy - Bloopers." At precisely 2:10 your head will 'esplode. You may thank me later._


	2. Chapter 2

Hands wrapped around warm tea, Sherlock tilted his head to the right five degrees. The living room walls really had the most awful paper on them if you stared long enough. Legs tucked beneath him on the sofa Sherlock's gaze flicked over the fireplace. Whose idea had it been to use not one, but two truly terrible patterns in one comfy sitting room?

Sitting in the armchair, sipping his own tea, John watched Sherlock watch the walls.

The consulting detective tilted his head the other direction. The wall looked fuzzy. Could that be a hallucination? No, he knew it wasn't. Flocked. That's what they called wall paper like this. Yes, flocked. As in totally flocked up. Sherlock giggled, then sobered. He really, really wanted to touch the wall.

"Drink your tea."

The voice was far away and fuzzy, but Sherlock did as he was told. Five minutes later he was drinking a second cup. By the time he'd nearly finished his third a half hour later, he was no longer nauseous. Dizzy. Horny. Euphoric. Or—

"Hi," said the man who now wasn't.

John smiled wide. "Welcome back."

Silence returned, lingered, stayed. Apparently Sherlock was content to dole out his words in small portions. Finally John surrendered. "Okay. I give. Tell me please, what were you doing locked in the loo with one hundred open bottles of Sassy Girl nail polish?"

Sherlock steepled his fingers, tapped his chin with them, briefly wondered how hard it was to paper over velvet wall paper. Then at last he spoke. "It's for a five year old cold case Lestrade sent over. It's completely foolish really, but apparently the owner of a nail salon claims she was high from nail polish fumes when she stabbed and killed her husband with a titanium cuticle pusher."

John actually started to laugh before catching himself. With only the barest strangle on his word he said, "Really?"

"Without a real case to work on it's at least mildly diverting. And obviously it's not as absurd as it sounds, as you saw."

"Yes, I did indeed. Saw you completely pissed on nail polish fumes."

"I wouldn't put it exactly that way. I did go a over-board—"

"You think?"

Sherlock ignored the interruption, "—in that what I should really have done is my nails."

John accidentally sloshed tea onto his lap. "'scuse?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Of course I need to recreate a similar environment to that of a small working nail salon, primarily its most common behavior: painting nails."

John nodded. Yes. Yes, of course. The doctor sighed. He knew what was coming, oh yes he did. In three, two—

"John—"

"No."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, leaned forward slightly, and went for the jugular. "So let me understand this. You'll die for me, but you won't let me polish your nails."

John was less than three seconds from capitulating because that's what he does, when instead he had a very good idea. Two could play at this game. Oh yes.

The doctor also leaned forward slightly, said softly, "You lisp."

Sherlock covered his surprise by picking up his tea.

"Why didn't I know that about you before?"

The detective dipped a finger into the cold brew for no particular reason, swirled it around.

"Can you help me with something?"

Sherlock frowned, lifted his finger, let tea drip from the tip and back into the cup.

"Why did it make me want you so bad I hurt?"

One of Sherlock's legs reflexively slid out from under him, and he sat a little straighter. He peered at his lover. The moment John had mentioned the lisp Sherlock had filled in a hundred jeers he'd endured from the time he could talk until nearly twelve, when he'd finally learned how to tame his tongue. The lisp was one of a dozen reasons he rarely drank and why he had almost never let anyone see him high. "What?"

John belatedly realized that Sherlock had thought he was mocking him. "I want to use your brilliant mind to figure out why I wanted to ravish you right there on the floor when I heard you sound so…"

A smile crept over Sherlock's face as he continued to play with his tea. "—vulnerable. That's the word you're looking for. But you knew the answer to your question before you even asked."

John opened his mouth and though the detective was still looking at his teacup he knew exactly what the other man would say. "Absolutely not John."

"But—"

"No. That's not a fair trade. I will not say spider for you. Or sink. Or sorry. Or anything else that starts with S. Not _that_ way." Sherlock stood. "I'll paint my own nails thank you." He started walking toward the loo but stopped and turned after a few feet. "In the meantime you can consider it your mission if you like, to see if you can make me do it again." He narrowed his eyes, sly. "But I will bet you anything you care to wager that you won't succeed."

Looking like a tousle-haired teddy bear swathed in a thick jumper and an over-stuffed armchair, John's cheeks flushed and he smiled. Could a teddy bear smile be called _evil?_ Calculating?

There were a hundred reasons Sherlock would never send John away, but this, his ability to surprise him, to act as if he was _smarter than Sherlock, _even if he wasn't, was right up there at the top of the list. "What? What are you thinking? Tell me what you're thinking." Sherlock's eyes went fierce. "Stop thinking, John. Stop. No fair. Stop it."

John laughed and only just refrained from rubbing his hands together. "Okay, Sassy Girl. Let's go do our nails."


	3. Chapter 3

They got loopy alarmingly quickly. Which excuses a lot of what happened. Or explains it at least. Maybe. Later on John wasn't so sure.

It started well. They crowded into their small loo, closed the door tight, then decided to open a half dozen bottles of polish to start off. That right there took awhile, however, as each felt compelled to open only those he liked, one choosing by name, the other by color. After making their selections, Sherlock took up position on the closed toilet seat, John on the edge of the tub.

They regarded one another for a moment, then Sherlock said, "We'll start with hands," and held his out. John obligingly slid his palm across that of his flatmate, and Sherlock found himself glancing at the state of John's cuticles while asking, "Any particular color?"

To John's surprise he had to think about it. As if it mattered. For crying out loud. "Um, yeah, let's go with Where There's Smoke."

Sherlock glanced over the dozens of bottles, stymied.

"That one." John pointed. "The medium gray."

Sherlock nodded, as if he should have known. He placed John's hand on his knee, plucked up and opened the polish, then bent low over his work.

As soon as he finished the first nail John slid to the floor by Sherlock's knees, peering. "No," he said briskly. "I don't like it."

The consulting detective glanced up, the slightest, barest, tiniest hint of a glaze in one eye. "What?"

John held up his hand, waved it around. "It's no good, I don't like it. Try the Chocolate Cheer." Nothing happened for three long seconds. John clarified. "The dark brown one next to your toothbrush."

Sherlock nodded, slid the open bottle of gray polish onto the counter, opened the brown, waited for the return of John's hand to his knee. He bent to his work again.

He got two more nails done.

"No. No. No."

Sherlock sat up, looked at John. He noticed the smaller man's eyes were a little shiny.

John lifted his hand into the light. "Mmm, try, errrr the Licorice and Leather." He looked at Sherlock. Sighed a bit dramatically. "The black. The black right there near your shoulder."

They actually managed to finish John's entire right hand without further interruption. Sherlock lifted that hand and gazed at it critically. It looked good. Yes, very good. The colors suited the doctor's skin tone nicely.

At this particular juncture, it didn't occur to Sherlock to find this thought odd. He reached for John's left hand.

"Bacchanalia Blue." John said with certainty. "The one that's tipped over on its side, right there. Then the—you should like this—Bodacious Bruise, that deep purple one." John rose on his knees, shoved a few bottles around, then with a shrug grabbed another.

Sherlock put all three bottles of polish between his legs on the toilet seat, and started humming tunelessly. Into the flow of it now, he did John's thumb with the blue, his index with the purple, then his middle finger with—

He pressed the bottle to his forehead and closed his eyes, swaying a little drunkenly. "Let me guess. Wild Winterberry?" He opened one eye.

John giggled up at him like a six year old, and shook his head.

"Mmmm, Well Red?"

John muttered, "Quite like that," but shook his head no.

"Eh…Tahitian Tango? Carmine Caress? Mad Merlot?"

John squealed. Yes, squealed. "Close!"

Sherlock opened his eyes. "Really?"

"Sort of. It's Murderous Maroon."

Sherlock shook his head, his body sort of listing off to the left briefly. "Well that's a little…that's not very…" At a loss for words, he bent over and proceeded with workman like focus to polish some more nails.

When he was done—and it took awhile because his eyeballs kept sort of sliding around all slickery in his head—he held John's hands up side-by-side, admiring.

John looked too. "Yes, that looks really good. I like it. Now it's your—" For no particular reason the doctor slid his legs out from under him until he was sitting on the floor. "—turn." He waved his hands in the air to hasten the last of the drying, and said, "Pick outcher colors babycakes."

Twenty five minutes and thirty-four open bottles later, Sherlock's hands were done up in a fruity mix of Tangerine Tango, Limeade, Banana Baby, and more than a few splashes of Bodacious Bruise. Just because.

For awhile each man tipsily admired his manicure, Sherlock in particular wondering why the polish actually made his long hands look even more, well, manly, more—_Hello._

Sherlock looked down. John's toes were quite suddenly and firmly shoved against his crotch. With a deep, shaky sigh, he deduced that this meant one of two things: John wanted a pedicure. Or John wanted—

"Ouch!"

First he was all the way over there by the tub, then he was on his hands and knees by the toilet and biting Sherlock's knee, and the woozy detective could honestly say he had not seen the good doctor span the brief distance. "John," he mumbled, "I really really think I'm very, very—ouch! Stop biting my knees!"

John let out a breathy laugh, started to tip over, saved himself, then said "Okay," and shoved his face between Sherlock's thighs.

"Fefflester," murmured the consulting detective, placing a shaky hand lightly on top of John's head. After a moment, he slid the other to the back of John's neck.

The doctor interpreted this as encouragement, so he bit gently, then tugged at Sherlock's hips until the tall man slid to the floor. For a moment they were an uncoordinated tangle of limbs and grunts on the rug, then John muttered, "Ouch, your pullin' my hair. Wait, no, don't…just hang on…okay stand up."

For a second they both stared at each other, trying to interpret the words, then Sherlock nodded, grabbed the counter top—from which rained down six open bottles of polish (mostly blues and beiges, and one metallic)—and hauled himself to his feet, scarcely noticing the bright stripe of Gary Glitter Gold slashed across the back of his suit jacket.

Once he stood up, he immediately wanted to lay down as the room started spinning. He settled for sitting on the countertop, shoving nail polish out of the way with his bum.

More bottles rained down, and John looked up in time to have his cheek splashed with a bit of Mossy Memory. He didn't notice. What he did notice was that Sherlock still had his trouser on. Why on _earth _did he have his trousers on? Shaking his head in exasperation, John crawled toward the counter—through a little bit of Cucumber Cool and a dash of Baby Is Blue—and reached for Sherlock's zipper.

Five minutes and seven more daubs of color later (this time on two sets of bare skin), and the shoes, trousers, and pants of both men were in a pile in the tub, while Sherlock's erection was in John's face. And then in John's mouth.

"Oooooooooo." It was a long, low moan of intoxicated pleasure coming from somewhere deep in Sherlock's chest. Also coming from Sherlock: Nice short, shallow thrusts of the hip, pushing his cock deep into John's mouth, then pulling it aaaalmost all the way out again.

"Ugh, John…" Sherlock said, pumping faster, "Oh John," he murmured, going a little slower, "Feels so gooood," he sighed, shoving hard, "good, good, good." John squeezed Sherlock's thighs and moaned inebriated encouragement.

That rumbling moan shot Sherlock through with greedy desire and he started to shove his hand into John's hair when some very dandified, very remote part of his brain hissed: "Watch the manicure!" and he refrained.

Fine, he would get what he needed another way. He slid to the very edge of the counter—his left buttock scooting through Pouty Princess Pink—extended his legs across the narrow floor until he could hook his toes over the side of the tub, then leaning back on his hands he spread his legs wide. With leverage at last, Sherlock started humping his boyfriend's face like a randy sixteen year old.

"Ugh," he groaned as John took him all the way in, "oh ugh." When he felt what he thought was John's finger push inside him he became slightly more loquacious. "Oh my god yes, absolutely yes, a thousand times yes." Then, instead of matching their rhythms to one another, John started thrusting into Sherlock on counter-point, a brain-scrambling tactic that had the taller man grunting through his teeth, pumping faster, and sliding precariously close to the counter edge all at once.

"Gonna," Sherlock panted, feeling his cock getting harder, "gonna," he groaned, feeling the orgasm build "gonna, gonna, gonna…" but he didn't, and then he still didn't, and then John cupped his balls and sort of squeezed, and then Sherlock did, he very much did, very hard, with a loud groan, and all over everything.

_

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To be continued shortly. With lisping. Comments?_


	4. Chapter 4

With a relieved, woozy moan Sherlock slid from the counter and collapsed beside his lover, who was stretched out on the floor like the victim of a Disney drive-by-shooting, splattered in every color of the cartoon rainbow.

As Sherlock settled in amidst that vivid mess, he glanced at John's penis: No erection. As the good doctor was almost never up for sex when intoxicated—it didn't matter with what—Sherlock wasn't surprised that he was flaccid now. Oh, the joie de vivre was usually there, the willingness to tackle, taste, and with mouth or hand take his lover up and over, but John himself getting a nice, raging hard-on when his brain was muddled? Not so much.

Scarcely wondering why they remained in the loo, squished against each other on the narrow floor and wallowing in a smeary sea of nail polish, the two men lay quiet awhile, one watching dust motes perform the Macarena, the other trying to recall pi to the tenth decimal place and failing. After a bit John gave up; he never could remember past the six most times anyway.

When the dust motes formed a smiley face, complete with bullet holes, in front of his pale eyes, Sherlock blinked rapidly. "John, I—"

"You didn't—"

After the extended silence the sound of their own voices startle them both. They turned, looked at one other. "You first—" "Go ahead—"

But each waited for the other, which meant neither spoke, which again led to more dazed quiet. When John shouted "Five three five!" ten minutes later he startled Sherlock right out of a good, tipsy nap. Though the detective usually hated sleeping—"It wastes vital time"—he did enjoy the sensual luxury of succumbing when his body simply gave him no choice. He was about to drift back into another toxic fume-fueled doze when John poked him gently in the side with a pointy finger.

Sherlock's eyes flew open and he rolled away automatically, one jutting hip bone squishing through a puddle of Flaxen Fire.

Bad move.

John immediately pressed up against his vulnerable, exposed back, mashing Sherlock against the side of the tub. "I'm gonna take your bet," the good doctor whispered with a disconcerting giggle. "Oh yes I am."

Sherlock knew what bet he referred to. Of course he did. But he didn't like the sound of John's—the drama-prone detective reached instantly for drama—_evil certainty._

Suddenly Sherlock wanted out of Sassy Girl Central and into fresh air, somewhere his brain would no longer be scrambled by nail varnish vapors, or the last tendrils of orgasm. He started struggling, pushing back.

It turns out John had all the leverage.

"I kept waiting," he said softly against dark curls. "You made me wait, Sherlock."

John never did this…this…voice. This deep, clipped voice. The sound of an officer talking to a private. It made Sherlock go very, very still.

"There's a price you pay when you make someone wait."

_Wait, wait, wait…_ That's what the tall man did, he lay there, suddenly compliant as a kitten, and waited and thought about the hand pressed against his belly, the hand sliding down his belly, the hand cupping his balls and half-hard cock.

Wait. What?

Sherlock's sex drive was wildly erratic, just like the rest of him. He could go for weeks without thinking about it, or he could stare at John's body half the day sometimes, daydreaming, planning.

What he usually couldn't do was get hard right after coming. The consulting detective started wondering what exactly, precisely, was _in_ this damn nail varnish anyway.

He didn't have long to dwell on these thoughts however because John was there at his ear, biting, hard, then soft, and unconsciously Sherlock started softly moaning, pressed both hands against the side of the tub, and arched his back in preparation for John's cock—which, if his bum was any judge, was still soft.

Wait. What? "Jo—"

And then it began. John dug ten evil, terrible, strong fingers into his lover's sides and he tickled the holy living hell right out of him.

Instantly every nerve ending in Sherlock's body went on overload, every inch of skin seemed on fire, and before he could even process what was happening this haughty, haughty man with a baritone like liquid chocolate let out a high-C shriek of laughter that would have done ten toddlers proud.

John moved like lightening all over his lover's body, digging fingers in between ribs, under flailing arms, to neck, belly, and back again. How he knew precisely where to touch, the exact spots where his lover was violently ticklish would be a mystery for the ages, but he knew, he _knew_ and he exploited this knowledge with fierce determination.

For his part Sherlock writhed like a man possessed, a long white snake slithering all over the floor—we won't even mention the eleven distinct shades of polish that painted themselves over his back, bottom, and hair—but no matter where he moved in that confined space John was there, clamped around him, relentless.

And then it happened. Thrashing, flailing, breathless, crazed Sherlock howled, "Thtop, thtoooop!"

And they both did, instantly.

Sherlock's eyes flew wide and his mouth made a perfect circle, he could not believe John had bested him so easily. And it only got worse: For a moment Sherlock was actually speechless.

And then he very much wasn't. "I am going to scoop out your _eyes _and eat them, John. I am going to boil your—" He wriggled under his lover, about to turn the tables, when he felt John's extremely erect cock between them. "Oh."

John's face fell and he instantly started pulling away, radiating waves of oddly misplaced guilt for being turned on by Sherlock's lisp.

Fortunately the consulting detective had fewer guilt complexes than his flatmate. Far fewer. As in, perhaps, none. Sherlock looked at his lover through half-closed eyes, bit his lower lip and let his teeth _draaag_ across that red, lush flesh and smiled. Apparently the _that's all right_ was clearly, beautifully implied because after a moment John stopped pulling away and whispered very softly, quite hopefully, "Spider."

Sherlock slid hot hands languidly up John's arms, to his shoulders, then around his neck. He tugged his lover's head down, pooled hot breath over John's mouth and echoed, "Thpider."

John stuttered out a ragged sigh, his entire body trembling.

"Uh, uum, sp-splendid."

Sherlock's long body writhed slowly, suggestively under his lover, he brushed his lips softly against John's mouth, poked his tongue inside and then murmured, "Thplendid."

John's breathing got faster, his voice hoarse.

"Se—Sexy."

Sherlock groaned long and low at the back of his throat, snaked his hand down, pressed it against John's cock. "Mmm, very, very _thexthee."_

John moaned and started humping. "Spectacular," he breathed, kissing Sherlock's mouth. "Superlative," he sucked in one of those lips, those god damn beautiful lips, "superb, significant, special, so special, my sweetheart, my love." And with that he growled, spread his legs, and began pumping away over his lover in earnest.

If left uninterrupted, the good doctor might have just ridden hard and gone for the gusto right there, but after a few moments he felt hands gripping his hips tight, holding him still. "My mouth," Sherlock breathed. "I want to…" he barely smiled, barely whispered, barely pressed his tongue between wet teeth, "thuck you."

He wasn't standing up so John's knees couldn't technically give out, but they did anyway. "Oh good lord," he hissed, and without waiting for a second invitation he shimmied up Sherlock's body and straddled his face until his cock was there, right there, hot moist breath pooling over him, and then Sherlock reached up, pulled him down, and took in every inch.

That mouth. _That mouth. _In some ways it was the very essence of Sherlock. From that mouth poured evidence of the man's genius and almost-daily proof of his arrogance. It was a sharp, caustic place that mouth; the chief weapon he used to keep the world at bay. Which was why John loved it, was absolutely overwhelmed by it, when that mouth turned soft, hot, willing. When it opened as if hungry for him, when it could not seem to get enough.

As if knowing his lover's thoughts Sherlock moaned, a raw sound of need. He slid his hands up John's back, dragged them down hard-soft by the fingernails then, tilting his head back, he grasped the doctor low on his hips and set the pace, pulling John into his mouth harder, faster, deeper.

Now it was John who turned compliant and willing, doing as he was bid, fucking his lover's face, spreading his legs wider when hands tugged at his thighs, keening softly when fingers pushed inside him.

Arching his back so those fingers went deeper the delicious sensations began to build, then Sherlock moaned as if desperate and that was it—the orgasm washed over John in gut-wrenching waves, setting every nerve on fire.

Then there was the aftermath.

It took them more than four hours to clean the nail polish from their bodies, and even so they didn't get it all off, giving up after two hours because nail polish remover anywhere near your penis, face, neck or knees? Burns!

The remaining two hours of those four were spent trying to remove polish from the loo's mirror, counter top, walls, floor, toilet and tub. They gave the rug up for lost and tossed it in the bin. As for the shower curtain, well they just hoped Mrs. Hudson wouldn't notice that they'd had to cut off the bottom four inches.

As for the cold case, Sherlock sent Lestrade a brief text that night.

TXT MESSAGE FROM:

SHERLOCK HOLMES

1:58 AM

Wife guilty; defense ridiculous. Know from extensive, detailed experimentation that only thing you can do when high on those fumes is spend too much time in toilet. Really quite debilitating.


End file.
